Backlash: The Aftermath of War
by Arath
Summary: The repiloid Doan must face death, prejudice, and personal loss in the time period before Megaman X and continuing after Erico's Demons of the Past.
1. Preface

"Now, look, let's start with the Three Fundamental Rules of Robotics – the three rules that are buried most deeply in a robot's positronic brain __

"Now, look, let's start with the Three Fundamental Rules of Robotics – the three rules that are buried most deeply in a robot's positronic brain."

~ Gregory Powell to Michael Donnovan, I, Robot by Issac Asimov

**__**

Asimov's Three Laws of Robotics

First Law: A robot must not harm a human being, or, though inaction, allow a human being to come to harm

Second Law: A robot must follow the orders given to it by human beings, so long as the Second Law does not conflict with the First Law.

Third Law: A robot must protect it's own existance, so long as the Third Law does not conflict with the First and Second Laws.


	2. Prologue

BACKLASH ****

BACKLASH

The Aftermath of War

****

Prologue

The Year is 20XX…

Almost a year ago, a little known but well respected archeologist named Doctor James Cain made a fascinating discovery in the wilds of Japan, near the region of Mount Fuji that had been covered in ash and dirt for decades. There, he found the lost lab of the famed robotics genius, Doctor Thomas Xavier Light. And within that ruined structure rested the last great legacy of the esteemed doctor: his final work, the goal that he had sought all of his life to create.

A fully self aware, sentient robot, capable of making his own decisions without any prior programming other than basic speech and motor functions. His name was Mega Man X.

Cain, and the world, would be stunned by the lost work of Light. Soon, Cain had constructed his own robot, naming it Cancer. Like X, Cancer was fully self-aware. Cain had just created the first in a new line of robots, called Replicant Androids, or Repiloids, for short. The world was stunned, and soon repiloids were being produced by the thousands.

Like their now primitive ancestors before them, repiloids were assigned tasks too dangerous and risky for humans to carry out, and also those tasks that were deemed too delicate and sensitive for even the most advanced of robots. By comparison, even the famed Rock – the robotic hero Mega Man, to the world – would seem almost pathetic to even the lower end repiloids.

However, these new technological offspring proved to be more than mere workers and grunts. Soon, many had established themselves as accomplished artists, writers, mechanics, pilots – some people felt that they were out of a job. Indeed, many were; like the mass immigration to the United States during the turn of the 19th century, these newcomers were willing – and were fully capable of – working for longer periods of time, often with just as much pay, and sometimes even less.

And, just like the problems that faced the immigrants of the early 1900's, the repiloids faced much discrimination. Views on just what repiloids were varied; some felt that they were just another breed of robots, built to serve humanity's wants and needs as we saw fit. Others felt that they were the first of a new chapter in human history, the first self-aware beings to walk the Earth aside from humans. And still others felt that they were a menace, a threat to the carefully balanced peace that had been tenaciously built up since the "Wily Wars" of the days of 20XX.

Prejudice and a new breed of racial hatred spread across the globe. Almost everywhere they went, the newcomers were forced to endure the awful price of being different. Congress's and Parliament's and National Council's in almost every nation argued and debated endlessly about what to do about the "Repiloid Issue." In some countries, and in some specific regions, these "metal men" managed to find some degree of tolerance. In Japan, where centuries of tradition demanded acting kindly to strangers, the repiloids found a new home (it didn't hurt that Dr. Light had lived there for many years, eventually dying there at a very old age). In the United States, especially in California, New York, and much of the Northern Midwest, these newcomers were able to live without much hassle. In Great Briton, too, new homes were to found. In scattered regions across Europe, repliloids managed to live in peace with humans. Even (or especially?) in the harsh regions of the Middle East, these new people who were all too often very willing to earn their keep, were welcome.

Despite a slowly growing acceptance of this new breed of self-aware people, dissent and impatience was quickly growing among the repiloids. Soon, organized protests, revolts, and even paramilitary action was taken by some repiloid extremist groups. An American newspaper soon found a new name for these revolting repiloids: Mavericks. The name stuck, and soon, any repiloid found to be "irregular" was either quickly turned into a drone, or eliminated and broken down into scrap, their control chip – the thing that gave them their awareness, their personalities - burned to slag.

Despite this, many companies still continued to produce repiloids unsupervised, adding to the potential of a full-scale Maverick Revolt. It was about this time that a revolt did happen, ironically led by a repiloid created by the good doctor Cain; a repiloid who had, at first, led the long hard fight _against_ the Irregulars. The Maverick's name was Sigma.

Sigma proceeded to lay waste to city after city, leveling many urban and industrial centers. Millions of humans died at his hands, and thousands of Repiloids were executed for not joining Sigma's genocidal cause. After only a week, it had become clear that it was going to take more than just the UN military to stop this monster. It was going to take a hero.

Although Mega Man X was a stark pacifist, he, too, was soon drawn into the conflict, finally activating the battle systems his creator had left for him. Utilizing the armor left for him by the late Dr. Light, X went forth with his mysterious friend Zero, and, at the cost of Zero's life, managed to stop Sigma.

Despite Sigma's demise, Irregular's around the world continued to battle against the Human forces. It was also discovered that Sigma was, in fact, still alive, and plotting to launch another was against the humans.

X Stopped him a second time, and also managed to revive his lost friend Zero. Still, Sigma appeared _four more times_, thanks to the aid of the newly discovered Maverick Virus – a portable and infectious repiloid virus that infects the being with said virus, with three simple commands: DESTROY, INFECT, and SURVIVE.

It fell to X and Zero to stop Sigma, and finally bring about peace. With this accomplished, and Sigma (assuredly) killed, X and Zero set about regaining their pasts, and retiring to live in peace (well, X did, anyway. Zero continued to hunt any Maverick that he hadn't killed yet).

But, during those hash years of the Maverick Wars, the lives of millions upon millions were ruined, human and repiloid alike. This is the story of one particular repiloid, named Doan…


	3. Chapter One

Chapter One **__**

Chapter One: Injury

"Unngh…"

In the ally behind "The Roadhouse Cafe" in The Bronx, New York, a pile of garbage came to life with a soft and weary moan. With a shuffling of old cardboard boxes and falling of rotten food and discolored snow, a worn, dirty figure began to emerge from the refuse. His eyes blinked into focus as a snowy, red brick wall came into view in front of him.

"Where… what…" The figure started, as disjointed memories floated in his mind.

"Oh… aw, jeeze… ow…" The events of the past night came rushing painfully back, hitting him like a tidal wave. _A bar-fight… I tried to stop it… was hit in the head…_

_Doan… My name is Doan…_He thought, painfully rubbing his helmeted head. _My name is Doan… I am a repiloid… what am I doing here? Where am I?_

As Doan tried to piece together his fuzzy memory of past events, his sharp hearing picked up something. Something familiar… It was… laughter? Yes, laughter. And screaming – a young child was screaming…

"Stop it, Jeremy!" Said a little girl's voice.

"Say it! Go on, say it!" Said a young boy's voice.

"No! It's not true!"

"Yes it is! Say it!" Said the boy's voice, with insisting persistency.

"NO! There IS a Santa Claus!" Came the shrill reply.

The voices were coming closer, now… _Hide… I should hide…_ Thought the befuddled repiloid.

"No, no, no, no, NO! Santa DOES come!"

"Oh, yeah? So how come he brings us stuff from Super-Mall? Huh?"

"Because… because – because he owns Super-Mall!"

The voices were now right in from of him, and arguing – loudly. Doan wished he could lower his audio input levels – it felt like the noise was going to split his titanium skull.

"He does!" The girl was shouting.

"He does NOT!"

"Does TOO!"

"Does NOT!"

Doan screwed his optics shut in a vain effort to stop the noise from reaching his positronic brain. Having never been around human children before, he couldn't understand the importance of the existence of Santa Claus.

"Does NOT!"

"DOES TOO!"

"_DOES NOT!_"

"_DOES TOO!_"

Doan was trying very hard at this point to not make any kind of sound – not that he actually thought he could be heard over the arguing, but he did his best to remain undetected all the same. _Maybe they'll go away…_ he thought, with failing confidence. Small circuits within his brain told him the decibel level had gone up another ten notches. Not that he needed the information – his audio perception levels were working fine, thank you very much.

He couldn't believe the amount of noise the two children were making. He knew that he shouldn't do anything, but the noise level was just too much -!

"SHADDD-AAAAAP!"

The children looked up at the now standing repiloid in silent surprise, too scared to do anything but stare and gawk at the lightly armored figure, who was holding his throbbing head and steadying himself against the wall.

"For the love of god, will you two just please be quiet?" At which point Doan promptly flopped back down into his pile of garbage. The two children said nothing, still too amazed and shocked at do anything but look at each other and Doan, in turn. Finally, the little girl spoke.

"Uhh… We're real s-sorry, mister… we – we were just goin' home, an, an…" She trailed off, shuffling her feet in the snow. Doan just continued to rub his aching head, mumbling about how much it hurt. He sighed.

"It's… it's okay, kid. Just – just try and be a little more quieter, okay?" The boy looked at him with a funny expression, finally taking note of the tarnished chrome armor on the collapsed figure.

"Hey… You – you're a robot, huh?" Doan looked up at his newfound company. The two children were dressed seemingly lightly for such cold weather, having only light coats. The girl was small, and had shoulder length light-brown hair with freckles on her face. The boy squinted at him through a pair of orange-tinted sunglasses, with a mess of short brown hair topping his taller frame. Doan sighed heavily, his breath leaving curls of steam in the air.

"No, I am most certainly NOT a robot. I am a repiloid." This drew a look of curiosity from the little girl. "What's a repeeoid?" She asked. Her companion gave her a look of surprise.

"It's not REPEE_OID_, stupid, it's REPI_LOID_. R-e-p… uhh… well, who cares how it's spelled. It's just a robot anyway. Now come on, we have to home."

"But, Jeremy, we can't just leave him here…"

"Why not? He's probably super-strong an' stuff. I bet he could beat-up anyone." Doan looked at the boy wearily.

"Actually, I'm here in the cold because I lost a fight…" He replied, trailing off. "Wow, you must really suck to loose a fight!" Came the response, the boy smirking at him.

"I lost a fight to a bigger repiloid." Came the wry and weary response.

"Aww…" sighed the little girl, "Are you hurt?" she asked, concerned. Doan looked at the little girl and smiled.

"Yes; I'm okay. I _do_ have some armor." The boy – Jeremy – gave Doan a foul look.

"Yeah – but you _still_ must suck if you lost a fight." Doan looked at Jeremy, and gave an ironic smirk.

"You ever loose a fight to someone bigger than you?" Jeremy looked down and shuffled his feat in the snow, unable to come up with a suitable answer. His companion giggled.

"Jeremy has lost LOTS of fights!"

"Hey, shut-up, Melissa! No one asked you!" Doan and Melissa just laughed.

"Hee-hee! Jeremy has lost so many fights that–" She stopped mid-sentence, as Doan stopped laughing and began choking. She looked up, concerned. "Hey, are you gonna be okay?" Doan didn't answer – he was too busy reading his internal diagnostics. In his mind, he listened silently to the results.

"Operations systems capacity: twenty-nine point three-five percent. Suggested course of action: seek immediate repair." Doan cringed. Apparently, the beating he had taken the night before had done more damage that he had originally thought. Melissa looked at him with another concerned gaze.

"Hey, mister, you don't look so good…" her voice trailed off, not sure of what to do. Then an idea came to her. "Hey! I know! We'll bring him to dad!" Her companion – _brother?_ wondered Doan through the pain – gave her look of shock.

"Huh? Are you crazy? Dad would kill us!" Melissa gave him a hard look.

"Dad is always saying how he needs work! I bet this guy has money! Don't you… uh… what was your name, mister?" Doan, holding his side, looked up at the girl.

"Yes… and my name… is Doan…" Jeremy snorted.

"That's a stupid name…" he muttered, under his breath.

"Better than Jeremy," replied Doan weakly, grinning. His sister laughed, and began lifting him up.

"Come on, you'll be okay. Jeremy, help me! He's heavy!" She grunted. Jeremy hesitated at first, and, grumbling, helped his little sister. He lifted the dizzy repiloid, grunting with the effort.

"Ugh – he _is_ heavy!" The two faltered only once, and soon they had Doan back to a standing position. He stood awkwardly, using the cold brick wall for support. Melissa looked around for a minute, and soon came up with an old pipe to use as a makeshift crutch. Jeremy glanced at his small watch, and tugged on Melissa's coat.

"Come on," he said with an urgent tone, "we really need to get home." His sister looked at him, and nodded. "Okay. Come on, Doan!" Jeremy looked at the silver figure, and motioned for the two to follow him.

Although Doan didn't realize it, it would ultimately be a choice that would affect his entire life.


	4. Chapter Two

Chapter Two: Recovery **__**

Chapter Two: Recovery

Doan and the two children – Melissa, who he had learned was nine, and Jeremy, who was thirteen – hobbled slowly down the dirty streets of the Bronx. The sight of a repiloid – even a crippled one – was enough to deter any muggers that were lurking in the shadows.

Despite decades of cleaning up the Bronx, it remained a sore spot for every mayor of the Big Apple, despite the fact that the crime rate had been declining, if slowly, and the unemployment and homeless rates were also declining, just as slowly. The Bronx had, in recent times, become a sort of home for those who were seeking temporary housing and work, and had seen the likes of all kinds of people.

It had, in fact become the true "melting pot" of the city, housing people of every ethnicity – even some repiloids had found homes in the region.

Doan was not a member of that class, however; although he didn't remember it, he had been sent there to help with work in the newly revived Works Progress Administration. All he remembered was being beat-up trying to stop another repiloid from killing a human.

As Doan continued to try and piece together his memory, Melissa was busy talking his synthetic ear off as Jeremy walked ahead a bit to go and buy a hot chocolate. Doan was only half paying attention; he was keeping an eye on her brother, who had wandered into the street. He didn't see – _Oh, no!_

Doan shot forward, and Melissa stopped talking suddenly-

The cab driver hit his breaks, the black rubber slipping on the cold pavement-

Jeremy turned in time to see the cab and the terrified driver-

Doan reached the boy and grabbed him, knocking the wind out of him-

Melissa screamed a warning to the two in the street, too late-

The cab swerved, and Doan continued without loosing step-

It was all over in an instant. The cab came to a stop not three meters past from where Jeremy had been walking, who was busy recovering from the shock of having the wind knocked out of him. Melissa was being talked to by a police-employed repiloid in green armor, as his human counterparts were pulling the cab driver out of his car.

"What – what happened?" wheezed the boy. He looked up at the dirty figure of Doan, who sat near him clutching his own leg.

"You were nearly killed by the cab," he said in a ragged voice, "but I managed to get you to safety." Jeremy looked at Doan, and then the cab, and back to the repiloid. He started to talk, but was cut off by the repiloid in green armor.

"Holy hell, kid! Are you okay? And you -" he looked at Doan "- you just saved that kids life!" Doan looked at the other repiloid. His armor was green, and resembled police SWAT armor. Indeed, he had a bronze badge magnetically attached to his chest-plate. His face was worn, and, much to both the surprise of Doan and Jeremy, had whiskers at the end of his chin.

"Hey, can you hear me? You're a friggin' hero!" The thick New York accent was lost on the chrome repiloid; his little maneuver had cost him some energy, and he was feeling weak. "Hey… aw, no –" The last thing Doan saw before he blacked out was the other repiloid yelling into his com-unit as Melissa was tugging at his arm.

"Unngh…"

Doan groaned as his optics whirred to life, and two figures came into a sort of blurry focus. One he recognized – the repiloid cop from before – but the other figure, a human, he did not –

"Where…" he began, as he tried to rise. The human pushed him back down, gently, speaking quietly.

"Easy, now. You've taken quite a beating, Doan." Doan's optics focused in on the man's face. It was relatively young; loose dark-brown hair hung limp from a thin face, which held a mixed expression of pride and concern. The repiloid from before came back into view, and turned to the man.

"What kind of damage did he take?" The man turned and regarded the green repiloid with a grave look. "Well," he began, "if you had gotten him to me ten minutes later, he wouldn't be here now." The cop rocked back on his heels a bit and set his jaw, not wishing to think about the severe mortality of the situation. He turned to say something to the man, but was interrupted by a sharp knock. All three turned to the door, as it opened just enough for Melissa to stick her head in.

"Uh, dad?" she started quietly, "is Mr. Doan going to be okay?" The man walked over to the door and opened it, guiding his daughter to the table on which Doan lay, still unmoving save for his head. "See for your self!" he said, triumphantly.

Melissa looked at Doan, and smiled warmly when she saw that he was well. She turned to her father, and smiled at him as well.

"You fixed him dad!" Her father grinned happily, and, in his best western drawl, replied "Aw, shucks maim, t'wert nuthin'." Melissa smiled and hugged her father. The green repiloid rolled his eyes, and coughed loudly.

"As much as I hate to interrupt this –" he paused for a moment, then "_Incredibly _sappy situation, I have to get back to my duties. I am so far behind on my paperwork, it's not even funny." Melissa's father turned to him with a grin. "Okay, okay. Melissa, go and tell mom that Wycost is going to leave, okay?" Melissa nodded, and walked off. Doan watched her go, and began to think. _Wycost… so his name is Wycost… what a strange name…_

"Well Doc, thanks for fixing Mister Hero here. Too bad we don't have more _humans_ like him around." The man laughed. "I know just what you mean. Come on, I'll show you out. Ah! I'd nearly forgotten. Doan?" The chrome repiloid turned slightly and faced the man.

"If you feel up to it later, I can introduce you to everyone. For now, there's a cot in the corner," he pointed to a small, dusty blue cot "and you should probably rest. I don't have all the facilities to fix you all up by myself, so your body's going to have to help me along." Doan nodded, and as "Doc" helped Wycost to the door, Doan slowly made his way to the cot, and fell into stasis instantly.

The next morning, he awoke to the sound of pots and pans being moved, and plates being scrubbed. He slowly swiveled to a sitting position on the cot, and held his head in his hand. The pain was gone – he was infinitely thankful for _that _– and the dings and scratches in his armor had been repaired, with hardly any hint of previous wear and tear.

Doan rose and went to a nearby window, gazing down at the streets below. The movement of the weekday had come, and busy people of all kinds were shuffling to and fro, some hailing taxis, most walking just as generations of New Yorkers had done for decades upon decades. He was lost in thought as the man from the day before walked in.

"Ah! Feeling better?" Doan turned and nodded at the thin man. "Yes, thank you." The man shook his head and waved a hand in a dismissive gesture. "Heck, it was no trouble, especially after you saved my son." He laughed again. "Heh – I think he has much more respect for repiloids now that one saved his life." Doan managed a small grin. The man slapped his head and groaned. "AH! I forgot to introduce myself – my name is William Scott. Or, if you want to be formal, _Doctor_ William Scott, PHD." Doan's eyebrows went up, suprised that such a well learnt man was in the Bronx.

"What did you get your doctorate in?" he asked with curiosity. The man grinned. "Robotic Theory and Practical Applications," he explained. "My professor was Dr. A. Strider – the first in two decades to get the same doctorate that I have; I'm the second." Doan nodded; he hadn't realized that there were college and university degrees in robotics. He also didn't know that the university that Scott had attended was the North American University for Robotics, founded decades ago by the famed "Father of Modern Robotics," Dr. Thomas Xavier Light.

"It's funny," continued Scott, "He was constantly referring to himself as the something-or-other of science… started with a B…" He trailed off, lost in reminiscent thought for a moment. "Ah well. In any case, are you hungry?" Doan considered this for a moment.

"My reactor is operating fine." Scott gave him an incredulous look. "You could have just said 'No.'" He grinned again. "That's okay; come on, I'll introduce you to my wife and give you the grand tour." He started out the door, and Doan followed, interested to learn about the people who had saved him.

The apartment was small – Melissa and Jeremy shared a room – but it was warm, and well kept. Doan found it odd that humans had so many items to keep with them that were not necessary. He mentioned such to Scott, who replied, "Ah, but they _are_ necessary, my friend." Doan looked puzzled.

"Why is that?" Scott thought for a moment, unsure of how to explain the concept to the still-young repiloid. "Well," he began, "they just are. They help us to be… comfortable with our surroundings, I guess." Doan frowned, still confused. Scott just chuckled. "Don't worry, you'll understand someday. Come on, I'll introduce you to Amy."

Doan followed Scott to the kitchen, where his wife was busy starting the dish washer. She looked up and smiled warmly at the two of them, standing together in the small doorway. She was short, Doan noticed, but not overly so. Her light frame was topped by a kind face and simple, straight brown hair, which was kept back by a small hair tie.

"Hello! It's good to see you're feeling better, ah…" She trailed off, unsure of his name. Doan filled it the empty space of hanging air with his name. "Ah! That's it – Doan. Well, I hope Will here didn't give you a hard time?" Doan shook his head. "Well, that's good." She turned completely around and looked Doan directly in the eye. "I'd… I'd also like to thank you for saving Jeremy's life. I don't know what we'd do without him." The silver repiloid just nodded, "It was no trouble, maim."

"Uhmm… there is something else we need to discuss," Scott cut in, glancing at Doan. "Well, there is the matter of… well… that is to say… payment." Doan just nodded, indifferent to the man's awkward request. He opened a small "pocket" in his right fore-arm, and pulled out some cash. "This is all I have," he said. "It's not much, but I hope It's enough." Scott took the money, checked it over, and nodded. "Sure, this is fine. It's just that, well, it's a bit odd, having someone pay you for saving their life." Doan's eyes lowered a bit, still feeling… incomplete.

"Well, I'm very grateful," he started, "and I'd like to pay you back for really helping me." Will and Amy considered for a moment, then, Amy picked up with an idea. "Will," she asked, "do remember that old book my father gave to us awhile back?" Will considered for a moment, and nodded. "Do you remember the first story in the book?" Will thought again, and his eyes lit up. "You mean – you can't be serious…"

Amy gave her husband her best look of determination, to which the man relented. "Okay, I suppose. Doan?" Doan looked up from his feet. "How would you like to stay with us?" Doan hesitated. "Well…" Amy cut in to reassure the repiloid. "We'll pay you, but only after you've worked off the debt you feel you owe us." Doan thought again, and nodded. "Okay. It's hard to find work out there anyway, so… sure. I suppose that's fine." Will clapped his hands and grinned.

"Okay then, it's settled! You can stay with us, and help-out with… uh… well, whatever needs doing. And when you feel you're repaid us, you can stay and be paid, if you'd like." Doan nodded, and they walked off to the living room to watch some TV.

The book that Amy Scott and Will Scott had been thinking of was Isaac Asimov's famous book. I, Robot, and the short story held within, "Robbie the Robot."


	5. Chapter Three

Chapter Three **__**

Chapter Three: An Offer

Doan was not having a good day.

Twice already, he'd had to repair a eye servo spasm on a servant 'droid. The same 'droid that had been in a week ago, but with a different ailment. That time, it had been an arm spasm. And the week before it had been a leg spasm…

He was beginning to wonder Sif either the owner or her children weren't causing the damage themselves. From what Will had told him, this could have very well been the case – some of the more well-off families of down-town Manhattan Island had been known to purposely damage their robotic servants, just for fun. Doan thought it was sick. He was just glad it hadn't happened to a repiloid – yet.

As he was busy tracking down the source of the problem, Amy came in with a glass of lemonade, and knocked on the door. Doan didn't look up – he was too busy trying to isolate the command path that had fried. She waited, and coughed. Doan finally looked up in annoyance, and relaxed when he saw that it wasn't the annoying customer he had grown to despise.

"Oh, Amy – I thought it was that stupid customer again…" Amy laughed, and leaned against the doorframe. "No, just me. I brought you some lemonade – it's like an oven in here!"

And it was. It was hot, even for March – the sun had been beating down on the Bronx for over a week now, and had nearly baked the tar out of the asphalt. And the forecast for the rest of the week was equally as bad.

"No, I don't need anything – I'm not human." Amy wrinkled her nose at the response.

"I know – but, well, it's hard to forget sometimes, especially when you aren't wearing your armor."

And she was right. With out his armor, Doan could pass for human everywhere he went, barring an up-close inspection. He had noticed this himself when he had taken his armor off for the first time, as well as his body suit. His upper torso had a ribcage, but it was unlike a human's. There were no indentations where you could see the actual ribs – instead, there was just what looked like a solid piece of skeleton.

His hair was odd, too. He had hair only on his head, and only on the top of his head. This may have seemed inconsequential, but when Doan noticed that humans had hair elsewhere (he had been nearly shocked to discover that they shaved it off, or had it removed totally), he felt strangely out of place .

His feet, too, were slightly larger than a human's would be – only by about a shoe size or so, but for someone human his size, it would be unusual.

"Well, that is the advantage of being a repiloid – we look human, but don't have to eat as often." Amy just laughed quietly and walked out the door. Doan turned back to his work, and continued to seek out just what it was that was making the robotic butler twitch.

Doan was adjusting to life well, thought Will Scott. It had been only a few months, and he had acquired so much human personality that it seemed hard to believe that he wasn't just another AI robot, tailor-made for a family. Of course, if he had mentioned it to Doan, the silver-armored repiloid would have probably walked out of the room with a severe twinge of annoyance. He had become very sensitive to the issue, and after dealing with so many of the customers that came to service their robots lately, Will could understand why.

Right now, though, Doan was sleeping in the small section of the workshop that had been converted to allow for some private space for the apparently now permanent guest. And he was doing something that he had never done before.

"Where am I?" Doan asked the black void that surrounded him. There was no answer. He repeated, "Where am I?" Still no answer. A feeling of concern grew within him, and he began to walk forward – and stopped, suddenly, as another sound grew louder, drowning out the faint sound of him breathing. Doan felt a chill, and looked down – his armor was gone; he wore only his light body suit.

Before he could fathom what was happening, a strong hand gripped his neck and heaved him into the air. Doan gasped, and clawed desperately at the hand that was crushing his throat. Terror begin to take hold; his vision dimmed; he was loosing consciousness…

"Ack! Wha-?! NO! _NO!_" The hand that held him closed tighter. As Doan's sight began to give way to darkness, he gazed at his assailant, and he screamed.

The figure holding him was himself.

"NOO! NOOOOOO!!" He screamed with a horrible recognition. The dark figure of his doppelganger said nothing; he merely tightened his grip. And then he let go. Doan collapsed to the floor, choking for air. The standing figure looked down contemptuously at his double. "You."

Doan looked up, into his own face – no… not _his_ face… it was wrong, somehow…

"You will kill us both. Don't trust them." Doan gazed upon his double in confusion. "They? Who is they?"

"You will kill us both. I will not allow that. Do not trust them." Doan was still confused. "Who is 'they?' Tell me!"

"Do not trust them." The standing figure gripped Doan in his cold hand, and once again lifted him into the air. "Do not follow them or I will kill you." And he began to do so.

"No… NO! _NOOOOOO!_"

"AUUGH!" The terrified repiloid awoke from his cot with a jump, and nearly fell out doing so. Small lines of cold sweat had formed on his brow – Doan wiped them off, and looked at his palm. _How could I sweat?_ His thoughts returned to the dream – he was sure it was a dream – and the twisted figure of himself, girded for battle. _It seemed so real…_ His mind racing, he settled back into an uneasy sleep.

Doan awoke the next day, on time as usual – a little trick that was thanks to his internal clock. He felt a little sorry for humans who had to rely on noisy external alarms. His thoughts turned again to his dream… he shuddered involuntarily, remembering his other self; dark, and ready to fight – no, he corrected himself: to kill. He shuddered again; the dream had seemed so… ominous. Almost prophetic…

His thoughts were interrupted by the sounds of someone talking in the next room. Dr. Scott seemed to be having a rather in-depth conversation with someone; he spoke with a serious tone, but he also seemed… excited? The sound of a click told Doan that the vid-phone had been turned off, and he rose to put on his armor for the day and prepare for work in the shop.

The entire day, Dr. Scott seemed distracted by some thing. He walked with his posture better than what it normally was; his reactions to typically annoying problems (like the customers) was much more amiable; and he talked to his wife whenever possible. Mrs. Scott thought her husband had been working too hard; he just grinned and walked away whistling whenever she mentioned it.

That night at dinner, he finally let it be known what was going on. He stood suddenly during dinner, just as everyone was having a second helping of pasta. Melissa and Jeremy looked up at their father with looks of surprise, and nearly choked on their food with laughter when they saw the look on William Scott's face. He was grinning from ear to ear, his eyes showing the faintest glint of laughter.

"Everyone, I have an announcement to make." Well, that seemed obvious enough, thought Doan in slight annoyance. "This morning," the doctor continued, "I had an interesting chat with a mister Takegawa of the Japanese Institute of Robotics – he's visiting in New York – and well: He's offered me a job in Japan!"

The stunned silence in the room was deafening.

Everyone stared at the thirty-something man as though his head had been replaced by a frog. Finally, Mrs. Scott spoke up.

"Ahh, dear – can I talk to you for a moment?" she rose, and grabbed his arm as she took him into the living room.

"Scott, honey, have you been around the soldering fumes for too long? I mean, Japan? We can't really…" her husband cut her off as she spoke, "Don't worry: Mr. Takegawa says he'll help take care of us – our house and such, and he's offered to set up classes for learning Japanese…" Mrs. Scott dismissed this with a wave of her hand.

"Will, what are we going to do with the children? They'd be strangers in a strange land." William gave his wife the most assuring look he could manage. "He says that there are some schools set up for foreign kids until thy get a handle on the language and such. And the kids are bright; they'll learn faster than we will, I expect." Amy Scott was not convinced. "Well… I'm still not entirely convinced." Will took her hand and gave her another assuring look.

"Look – just trust me, okay? We'll be fine. I mean, it'll be better than the Bronx. Within a month, we'll be better off than we are now. And Japan is one of the safest countries on the world; I mean, what could go wrong?"


	6. Chapter Four

Chapter Four **__**

Chapter Four: Foreshadowing

The plan had been set: They were to move to Japan in about three weeks, and then they were going to have about a week to settle in. The timeframe seemed small, but the entire situation was going well. Melissa and Jeremy had already been granted international citizenry (thanks to a new joint UN/USA law passed the year before their birth), and the forms for William, Amy, and Doan would be completed within the next week or so.

Other preparations were going equally as well: All the necessary things were packed (furniture would be provided, so there was no need to worry about getting it across the Atlantic and though Europe), and Mrs. Scott and the children were quickly learning basic Japanese. Mr. Scott was having a bit more trouble; Doan had learned to speak it almost fluently within three days.

However, they were still in need of things to travel with – luggage, bags, coats, etc. – and so Doan was on his way to go and buy some of the essentials for himself and the family.

He had no idea what he was walking into.

Wycost couldn't believe what he was seeing.

Two repiloids had – while laughing maniacly - just thrown a sales clerk through the window of the local World-Worth outlet; he was covered in glass, but had luckily managed to avoid getting seriously cut. Two other offices had dragged him to safely behind the SWAT truck, where the humans of the task force were ducking for cover from the constant hail of magnetically accelerated pistol rounds and white-hot plasma fire coming from the five robots in the store.

No, not robots, Wycost corrected himself: repiloids. Mavericks. His com-unit chirped, and he grabbed it irrtably.

"WHAT?!" The response on the other end was maddeningly calm; the robotic dispatcher ignored the outburst. "Sir, we have confirmation on those back-up units you wanted, as well as the negotiator."

"…AND?" The robot hesitated for a moment, unsure of how to deliver the bad news to the obviously irate Wycost. "The two SWAT units are denied, as well as the negotiator. Your orders are to eliminate the rouge repiloids."

And the com-unit chirped off again.

"FRACK IT!!" Wycost turned to his second in command, another green repiloid named Harrison. "Harry! What's our status?" Harry ducked behind the patrol car after returning fire, and pulled up a data-pad. "Not good, boss. We just can't match the firepower they have. I mean, five busters and a mag-pistol is pretty hard to…" Wycost cut him off mid-sentence.

"What _do_ we have, dammit?" Harry looked at his CO sullenly. "You, me, and the four humans pinned down behind the SWAT van." Wycost's rather colorful response was not suitable for print. "Damn… So, in short of a miracle, we're screwed…" Harrison didn't say anything; there wasn't anything to be said.

And suddenly the shooting stopped.

Wycost froze. If they had stopped firing, it could only mean – oh, no, not that. Oh god, no…

"**_EVERYBODY GET DOWN!_**"

Doan whistled as he walked down the street, happy to be leaving the Bronx. Well, for the most part; true, it was grimy and tough, with little room for error, but it wasn't all bad. Wycost was here, his only friend aside from the Scotts, and –

"AHHH!"

His train of thought was suddenly derailed as an explosion from around the corner knocked him off his feet. Others in the street screamed and ducked for cover. Doan rose, shaking his head and wondering what the hell had just happened. He rushed around the corner, and was stunned at what he saw.

Almost a mile down the street, the SWAT van that the human officers had been taking cover behind had been obliterated. What remained was a burning hulk of twisted metal, blackened by the immense power of five charged plasma blasts. Only one cop remained, still alive somehow, but injured. When Doan panned around, what he saw shocked him.

Wycost was ducking along with another green police repiloid behind a severely damaged patrol car, and were returning fire into the store Doan had planned on buying luggage from.

He gawked at what the incredulity of the scene; he had wanted to say good bye to his friend, although this wasn't exactly how he had intended to do it…

Not sure of what to do, he ran as fast as he could to his crouching friend, doing his best to keep his head low and avoid getting killed. When he finally made it to the two repiloids, Wycost's reaction wasn't what he had anticipated.

"WHAT THE FRACK ARE YOU DOING HERE?!" Doan recoiled a little at the hostile response. "Uh, well, I was on my way to get some bags, and…" He trailed off, still not sure of what to do. Wycost sighed. "Well, so long as you're here, I might as well make use of you. You have a buster?" Doan was a little taken aback at the question. Of course he had a buster; almost all repiloids had one, of one sort or another.

He nodded, and formed his left hand into a pitifully weak plasma buster. Wycost almost laughed when he saw it. "What the? – what's the output on that thing?" Doan was hesitant to answer: "Umm… 100 kilo-watts." Wycost's response was slow coming. "And you're supposed to use that thing to _hurt_ people?" Doan recoiled. "Well, actually, I've never used it before, except on tin cans." Wycost almost made a smart remark, but stopped himself short. Harrison payed them no heed; he was busy returning fire.

Inside the store, five repiloids were having the time of their lives.

"HOO-YEAH! Duck little man! Duck before I _blow your fracking head off!_" The yellow construction repiloid screamed at the top of his voice-box level as he fired off searing hot blasts of fire at the remaining police forces. He turned to his compatriots and grinned. "Hot damn, fellas! I never knew this could be so much fun!" The other repiloids grinned back. They weren't really thinking anymore; the only thing their insane minds were bent on now was death.

And they were fully capable of dealing it out.

"Awright, look: what was the greatest range that you could hit something with that peashooter in one shot?" Doan thought for half a second, "About seventy yards or so… why?" Wycost grinned. "I may just have a use for you yet."

He turned to Harry. "Hey, Harry – see if anyone's still alive over at the truck." Harry brought his com-unit up, and Wycost turned back to Doan. "Okay, look, here's what we're gonna do: You and Harrison are gonna provide me with some cover fire…" Harrison turned back to Wycost, "Hey boss! One of the humans is still alive, and says he can still shoot!" Wycost grinned. "Awright! We just might be able to do this. Tell him to cover me. I'm gonna rush the guys in the store."

Doan and Harry looked at the green repiloid as though he had just lost his mind. Doan was the first to reply: "ARE YOU FRACKING NUTS?!" Wycost turned to his silver friend. "Hey, these guys are, and we sure as hell ain't getting any younger…" Harry spoke up, "Okay, boss. Just give the word." Doan looked up with a weak grin. "Yeah – why not?" Wycost grinned again.

"Okay, then. HERE WE GO!"

As soon as he had a full charge on his buster, Wycost leaped from cover as Doan and Harison blasted away at the mavericks. Doan managed to hit two dead on; it wasn't enough to really hurt them, but Harrison's more powerful buster made up for lost time.

As they did so, Wycost managed to hit one maverick, and send him sprawling in a mess of charred armor. The green repiloid had just enough time to get to the ruined SWAT van and take cover again.

When he saw what remained of the three dead officers, he nearly lost it. The last officer – a lean man named O'Hara – was slamming the last clip he had of mag-rounds into his pistol, and jumped when he saw the green repiloid, bringing the barrel of his gun level with his fellow officer's head.

"Fer' chrissakes, Wycost, don't _do_ that to a man! There's only so much a guy can take!" Wycost looked over the human, and knew that if this didn't end soon, the death toll was going to go up by one. Another family would loose a father; Wycost wouldn't let that happen.

"DAMMIT!" The maverick with the mag-pistol had just been turned to slag; even his control chip housing was a molten mass of carbon. The other mavericks doubled up on their offensive firing; semi-charged shots flew through the air, as the smell of ozone filled the smoky department store.

"I'M GONNA MAKE YOU PAY YOU FRACKING BASTARDS!!" The smallish general-purpose repiloid fired his modified buster for all it was worth, pushing the safety limit on the heat sinks to their limit. He didn't care. He was a maverick.

There were three remaining mavericks in the store; Wycost knew that for this to end, they were going to have to die. They would not surrender. Mavericks _never _surrendered. Wycost brought his com-unit up. "Harrison! Charge your buster and take the one on the left!" Harry nodded. "Got it!" Doan looked at the green repiloid. "What are you gonna do?" Harrison grinned. "Be a hero. Hell, maybe even…" Harry never got to finish his sentence. A charged blast of plasma struck the car, and continued on – taking Harry with it and throwing Doan back and away from the squad car.

When he looked up again, he wished he hadn't. Harry's entire lower half was missing; his artificial entrails were sprawled under him, as purple repiloid blood flowed out in a constant, sickening stream.

Doan could hardly believe what had just happened. He stared in stunned, sickened silence as Harrison bled to death.

"HOO-YEAH! I got one! I got one!" The small maverick was getting high-fives from his buddies between plasma shots.

"…Doan…" Doan looked up from his tears at Harrison, who had his head turned towards the silver repiloid. "Doan… my buster… take…" Harry's eyes closed and his breath sputtered as the last of his power blinked out.

"Harry… Harry?… HARRY! GET UP! _HARRY, GET UP!_" Doan shook the green police repiloid, desperate for him to wake up.

Harry's eyes never opened.

Doan remembered, somehow, what Harrison had wanted him to do. He removed the police officer's buster with practiced precision, and replaced his own with it. He watched as the reactive metal seamlessly slid over his hand.

Harry would not die in vain.

"Nice shot little man!" The smallish maverick turned to his compatriot and grinned insanely. "Damn straight! AND I'LL GET ANOTHER TOO!" His comment died away in a screaming howl of twisted laughter and plasma fire, emanating from his buster.

"Harry… I'm sorry…" Doan sobbed quietly amongst the plasma bursts as he began to charge the X-Buster to its maximum capacity. His left arm whined as white-hot fire built up to dangerous levels, the safety regulator having been deactivated. Doan's face grew contorted with rage, and had anyone been able to see him, they would have cringed.

"**YOU FRACKING BASTARDS!!**" In a swift move, Doan emerged from behind the squad car and let loose his vengeance. The mavericks inside didn't even have time to react: the interior of the store erupted in an explosion of charred remnants of suitcases and duffel bags; the micro-fusion tank reactors in the chests of the insane repiloids went critical, blue plasma fire tearing their bodies apart as they screamed with their last breaths.

"_HOLY HELL!_ What the frack was that?!" Wycost emerged quietly from behind the ruined squad car, and gazed at the store. He stared in awe: The entire front of the building had been charred and blackened, smoke rising from virtually every surface. The inside was even worse – some materials had fused together in the intense heat, producing shapes that were unrecognizable to the eye.

Wycost looked around in astonishment, wondering what had caused the eruption of fire. His optics searched the area until a hazy figure came into view, it's X-Buster still raised and smoking. "Harry? …Harry?" Wycost looked on as the smoke cleared. It was Doan; his silver armor covered in soot, blackened to the color of brushed pewter. His face held an expression of shock, as though he couldn't believe what he had just done.

"_DOAN!_ Holy hell! Are you alright?" Wycost rushed over to the stunned Doan, who stood awkwardly. Fire-engine sirens sounded in the distance, growing closer with every passing moment.

Doan looked on past Wycost into nothingness, his optics glazed over, his gaze distant and hollow. Wycost shook him, yelled at him, tried everything he could to awaken his shocked friend.

"Doan… Doan… Wake up, man!" Doan shook himself from his rest cycle, and looked up into the face of a repiloid medic, and the worried face of Wycost, covered in soot and ash.

He groaned as he sat up on the medical palate, reaching for his head with his left hand. And then he realized he had no hand.

"AUUGH! AHH! AH! AHHHH!" He screamed, panicking, grasping at the hollow stump of his wrist. _MY HAND! What happened to my hand?! What happened-_

With a solid THWOCK, Wycost slugged the smaller repiloid and sent him sprawling back onto the palate. He shouted at Doan irritably.

"_Your hand's in the buster, you damned idiot!!_" Doan opened his eyes slowly, and brought his left hand into his view with worry. When he saw the port of the buster, he sighed with relief, and rose embarrassed. Wycost was rubbing the bridge of his nose with his middle and fore fingers in irritation.

"Geeze, man, get a grip. I didn't want to hit you, but…" Wycost trailed off as Doan rose off of the cot and looked at the scene around him, stoically taking it in.

The store had been burned to slag, and was covered in the chemical solution that the fire-fighters had used to put out the remaining fires. The "World-Worth" sign on the front had been blackened and decayed by the firefight, and parts of it had dropped to the ground, also covered in flame-retardant chemicals.

As Doan looked to the interior of the store, he saw police crews removing what was left of the repiloids – mavericks – inside. _The people I…_

"ARRRGH!" Doan collapsed to the ground, gripping his head in pain. Shaking it in disbelief. "No… no… I couldn't have… I can't… no…" Wycost looked on morosely. He had seen this happen before. No one ever really wants to take a life, even if it had been the life of a maverick. He picked up the sobbing Doan and quietly led him away, taking careful aims to keep him away from the repiloid and human coroners.


	7. Chapter Five

Chapter Five: **__**

Chapter Five: Drowning Your Sorrows

After the fight, Wycost had led his friend to a nearby Irish pub – one that he frequented as often as he could. The larger was good and not too expensive, and the manager and clientele were friendly to repiloids (Wycost speculated that this might have been because of the alcohol, but he never said anything). It had been, in fact, a bar that he had visited with Harrison many timed before.

Right now, though, he and Doan came in through the oak pub door looking very haggard. No one turned to look up from their drinks and conversations, their minds slightly befuddled from the liquor. The only recognition was from the bartender, who gave them a polite nod of welcome, and turned back to the man sitting in front of him.

The two walked wearily to the bar, and sat down with a grunt. Wycost looked up to the bartender, held up two fingers, and turned to Doan. The chrome repiloid was sitting silently, his head down and his helmet resting on the bar. His short, dark brown hair was slightly burnt and covered in soot, despite the fact it had been covered by his helmet the entire time of the fight.

"So…" Wycost offered as the drinks were brought, "you alright?" Doan didn't answer; he just stared down into his drink with sad, gray eyes. Wycost sighed heavily, and took a swig from his mug, downing almost the entire contents of the container.

"Harry… he…" Doan couldn't bring himself to finish the thought. The image of Harrison being blown to hell in front of his eyes, missing the entire lower half of his torso and flooding the immediate area in blood, was still very clear in his memory. Wycost finished off his drink, and motioned for another.

"He'll be rebuilt. He has an insurance policy." He paused to take another swig of beer, "'Course, he never thought he'd need it…" he muttered into his mug. Doan said nothing, but continued to stare into his glass.

"Look, Doan; I don't mean to be insensitive, but you need to get over it. Harry knew the risks of being a repiloid cop, and he signed on knowing these risks. We were in a combat situation; people get hurt, people die," he took another swig, and continued, "it's just the way of things."

"Somehow, that's not exactly the most comforting thing I've ever heard." Wycost said nothing. He had seen this thing before, many times. He'd gone through it himself at one point, but had managed to move on – albeit, with the help of a lot of alcohol…

He sighed, and clapped his friend on the shoulder gruffly.

"Come on, Doan." Wycost said. "Let's get you drunk."

That had been about an hour ago.

"Hey, Wygost…" Doan's voice was slurred; he hiccoughed before taking another drink from his frothy mug. Wycost leaned over and looked at his friend with blurry and un-responsive optics.

"Yeahurrah?"

"Why – HIC! – why didja become a cop?" Wycost took a huge swig from his frosty tankard before slamming it back down onto the wooden bar. The bartender on duty winced, but said nothing. Wycost was a regular, and he tipped well enough.

Wycost wiped the froth of the German larger from his scruffy chin and smiled, sloppily. Doan looked back his very drunk friend and tried to focus on the pinkish-green blur in front of him.

"Weaayll Doan, I thought I might try to do something worthwhile with my time..." Wycost slammed his fist on the counter, "Bartender! Gimme another rou-und..." Wycost's speech was becoming less concise with each swig. Doan jumped as the new mug was slammed down, his systems not used to the rather strong liquor.

Wycost continued on, almost oblivious to the fresh drink placed beside him as his arms waved about. He nearly knocked it over, but somehow managed to avoid calamity.

"So, here I was, thinking to myself, ya know? What other profession can you have, in whi… whi… whii-iich – HIC! – ya' get to lug around a buster and play police man?"

If Doan had known of (and heard) the comment from the man next to him, he probably would have laughed.

"Jeeze… he's drunk as a frickin' skunk…" Doan just turned to Wycost and gave him a sloppy grin.

"Ahh… I see…" He paused a moment before going on, "Well, I have a buster… an' I shoot stuff… HIC!" Doan's scattered postironic brain struggled to maintain his train of thought, but the effect of the beer was too strong. "And… and I saved your butt! So there!" With that, he slammed his fist down on the bar for emphasis. The bartender looked at the silver repiloid, sighed, and put down another drink. Doan looked down at the new glass, not quite sure why it was there, but downed it anyway; he sputtered it out almost as soon as he realized what it was – which wasn't fast enough before much of it had gone down his gullet.

"Wha… what the hee- IC! – is this?" Wycost slammed his tankard back to the counter from another huge gulp and lazily grinned with one open eye.

"Weeyll… Doan, that's the house specialty. I helped make it, too."

"Oh. That's great an' all… but… wait – what was I saying?" Doan was stuttering almost incoherently now. Wycost guffawed, and shook his head.

"I call it the Irish Banshee… because once ya drink it, you'll swear the angel o' death's howlin; at 'yer - HIC! - back…" Doan pushed the mug away, finally giving in to whatever reason was left in his drunken mind.

"Thanks for tellin' me…" Wycost raised a hand, and dropped it back down again.

"Ahh… good liquor alwayse puts me in the mood for a SEA SHANTIE…" Doan frowned.

"Sea shantie?" Wycost nodded, and stumbled to his feet.

"Come on! Just join in when you get the feel for it." Wycost raised his voice so that everyone in the bar could hear him. "Hey, EVERYONE! Ma...ma...me and my Friend..." Wycost blinked and looked over to the grayish blur beside him. "Eeh, what's yer name again?"

"It might be Doan... Ehh… Yeah, it's Doan… I think…"

"MY FRIEND DOAN…" Wycost bellowed loudly, "me and my friend Doan here are gonna you all a little sea shantie … In the ways of my Irish fore-fathers and how they did it, and how their ancestors before them, all the way back to when the first Irish monkey scratched himself…

Doan shook his head, grinning, "I don't like this…"

Wycost took a deep breath, coughing a bit before gaining enough muster to start up. But, at long last, silence overcame the bar, and all eyes turned to the pair of overwhelmingly drunk repiloids. The green policeman began stomping his feet back and forth, providing a stumbling rythym; a few patrons started to move their own feet along with the poor rythym.

A sound started in the base of Wycost's throat, then raised to a low growl, and began what can only be described as a _drunken attempt_ at singing…

"Ohhh!…" the cop began, "Where do ya go when you're pissed outta your gourd?"

Doan stepped in, beginning to get a feel for what Wycost was getting at.

"Er – where do ya go when yer rusting yer sword? Wycost stepped in, replacing Doan's drunken, unsteady voice.

"You go where the women and wine are the same, you go where all the other schmucks know yer name..."

"THE BAR! THE BAR! It ain't too damn far! Just sober on up and get in the car!"

"What's better to go is a land far away, where the drinks are free and the night is the day..."

"THE BAR! THE BAR! It's really not far! Just grab yer damn keys and don't crash your car!"

"So drink up me hearties, and sail on the sea, for when you get back your cup won't be filled with tea..."

"...And when you are there, far from your home, just think of the women, and don't go it alone!" With that, the entire bar erupted into raucus laughter and applause.

"Be with yer pallies, yer chums and yer mates! Keep it in mind that danger never abates! A keen eye and keen mind will take you so far, for the rest of the way, look to a star!"

That did it; Wycost and Doan were received by the biggest round of shouts and cheers yet, with much banging of the tankards and stomping of the feet. Wycost grinned sloppily, raising his arms in victory to the crowd.

"Thank you! Thank you! We're here all week!" Laughing, the green repiloid turned back to the bar.

"Well, Doan, that was pretty shakey, but I think you've… Doan… Doan?"

Doan had passed out drunk on the bar.

An hour later, two figures staggered towards the door of South Bronx Housing Lot D, one fumbling for a keycard, the other supporting the first.

"Geeze, Doan, you weigh a ton for a little guy – even for a repiloid…"

"Well, you… uh… sh-shoot, where's the?… there it is…" Doan's voice sounded softly in the dark as he managed to get the key into the door panel, which slid open silently.

"Come on Doan… that's it… take it easy…" Wycost guided his friend slowly to the elevator, taking care not to drop the still-drunk Doan. Although Wycost was used to strong liquor, which was beginning to wear off, his silver compatriot most definitely was not.

It was another few minutes before the two made their way to the Scott's apartment, and another minute before Wycost deposited a stasis-mode Doan onto his cot.

"Sleep well, Doan; you've earned it."

As he slept, images of light and shadow drifted through Doan's mind. Some formed into shapes, some into colors, some into people he knew. Melissa walked to him and leaned towards him.

"Doan! Doan, why'd you go and kill those people?" Doan stared into her eyes silently, and turned away.

"I… they… they were just mavericks… they were going to kill everyone." Melissa looked at him quizzically.

"They were bad guys?" Doan nodded. "They were bad guys because they killed people?" Doan nodded a second time. "So does that make you a bad guy?"

"What?!" Doan looked up sharply, but she was gone, replaced by Harrison, floating in mid-air, his body spilling blood into the black nothingness that was the floor.

"They killed me. They killed me because you were too weak."

"What-? No! No, it was an accident!"

"My death was an accident?"

"Y… yes! It couldn't be helped!"

"Are you sure?"

"Yes! There was nothing I could do!"

"So you let me die?"

"NO! No, I didn't want you to die!"

"So why am I dead? You could have done something, Doan."

"No, I couldn't! I was too weak!"

"You were too weak to save me."

"I WAS TOO WEAK! I'M SORRY! _PLEASE! I'M SORRY!_"

"It won't bring me back. My control chip could be slag. I'm gone because of you. Because of you, I'm dead.

"NO IT'S NOT TRUE! _IT'S NOT MY FAULT! **IT'S NOT MY FAULT!**_"

"I'M **_DEAD_**!"

"NOOOOOOO!!"

In a swift move, Doan brought his buster to bear, and pulled the trigger. Harrison erupted in a scream of pain and fire, his remains obliterated. Doan looked on at what he had done, looked at the death he had wrought.

"No… no…! NOOOOOOOO!!"


	8. Chapter Six

Chapter Six **__**

Chapter Six: Aftermath

The silver repiloid awoke, screaming, the world around him rushing past in a haze. Nothing made sense, nothing mattered.

He just wanted to die.

Doan fell to the floor, his armored form making a loud _thump_ as it struck the wooden panels of his make-shift room. He curled himself in a ball, tears falling from his face.

Everything from the previous day came rushing back in a flood. Him, walking; Wycost and Harrison, firing back at the mavericks in the store. Harrison dying.

Harry dying.

Harry dying, again. And again.

And again. _And again_. Doan's mind would not relinquish its hold on the visage of the policeman's body being engulfed in a fiery hell that ripped him apart and sent the basic-model flying.

"Harry… I… I'm sorry…" Doan couldn't stop himself from shaking; his metal boots clattered on the boards underneath him.

"Doan?" He didn't respond, even as Melissa lay her small hand on his arm. Her hand was warm, even through the gray bodysuit that Doan wore. Doan stopped shaking a little, her presence a source of relief.

"Doan? What happened? Are you okay?" Her voice was concerned, and it seemed like she was ready to cry along with Doan. He finally stopped shaking, laying still on the floor next to his cot.

"I… I did…" She bent over and hugged him, holding his larger frame as best as she could.

"It's okay Doan. It's okay…" Doan shook his head a little, his short brown synth-hair becoming more tousled with every sob.

"No… I, I kill… I killed…" He couldn't finish. Melissa just held onto him tighter, trying to help the repiloid.

"It's okay Doan…" Melissa didn't understand what Doan was saying. It didn't matter. Carefully, she helped his back up onto his cot to a sitting position, and sat next to him, still hugging him.

Doan could say nothing, his silence interrupted only by an occasional sob. After a few minutes, both were asleep, still sitting on the cot.

It was a strange scene. Melissa was clinging to Doan like he was a lost puppy, and he cradled Melissa in his arms gently as they slept.

It was late the next morning when Doan awoke, the small child still holding onto him. He smiled a little. It was good to have family, he thought.

Carefully, as not to disturb her, he moved her back onto the cot as he got up, finding his helmet and replacing it on his head.

There were sounds of the streets from outside, filtering in through the closed window, it's automatic tint faint in the morning. Doan sighed, closing his eyes to try and block the memories of the fight.

With Melissa there, though, it was easier. He didn't want her to be afraid; she was too young to have to worry about mavericks and the threat they posed.

And, he thought, she was much to young to know that he had killed a few of them.

Doan shuddered, again trying to stop from remembering the thoughts he had almost drowned in before. Gathering his composure, he went out the door.

William Scott, at the moment, was trying to wake up with a newspaper in front of him, and a cup of strong coffee in his hand. He finally put down the comics – old habits die hard, he thought – and brought the front page up with a slight shuffling.

"MAVERICK ATTACK CAUSES THREE DEATHS, THOUSANDS IN DAMAGE" read the headline. Will looked the article over lightly, not giving much thought to it – until he saw the location.

He paused, the cup of hot steaming liquid halfway between him and the table. World-Worths. The very same one he had sent Doan to the day before. The day that Doan had come home late.

"Oh my god…" He stared at the article, compelled to read on.

"Five mavericks of unknown type ransacked a store yesterday late in the afternoon, not giving in to police demands to relent to custody. Three human officers were killed and one repilod was destroyed during the intense firefight, and one human officer still remains in critical condition.

"Were it not for the actions of two repiloids, under the guidance of the injured human SWAT member, the entire neighborhood could have been decimated. As it stands, over an estimated fifty-thousand credits worth of damage has been caused to the building, and an undisclosed amount of damage as done to the SWAT vehicles and other police property, including the repilods damaged or destroyed in the attack.

"One of the surviving police repiloids, designated Wycost, declined to comment. The other repiloid seen leaving the scene with Wycost could not be found for comment."

William looked up from his paper to see Doan standing in the doorway, his head bowed, silent, his eyes closed.

"Doan…" Doan said nothing, and Scott continued, "it… you were the other repiloid in that attack, weren't you?" Doan nodded, a motion just barely perceptible in the dim light that filtered through the window.

"Doan, are you… are you okay? I… uh…" An awkward silence filled the room, and Will motioned for Doan to sit. The repiloid did so, stiffly.

"I was involved in a maverick attack." Scott nodded slowly, looking at Doan, still trying to take in what had happened.

"I gathered that…" Silence again.

"Doan…" Doan looked up at Scott, the human's deep brown eyes burning into him.

"Doan, I want you to understand something: you are a member of this family." Doan nodded again, and Scott continued, "and I want you to know that we're here for you. I don't care if you're a repiloid. You are _sentient_; you can make your own decisions. You're on the same level as every other human being on this planet. And don't let _anyone_ ever tell you otherwise."

Melissa wandered in at that moment, rubbing her eyes of sleep. William hastily hid the headline on the paper, both he and Doan trying to put on a good face for Melissa.

"G'morning, daddy!" Will took his daughter into his arms, setting her on his lap as she took out the comics section. Doan smiled at her warmly, and she smiled back, oblivious to the grim happenstance of her father's conversation with Doan.

The repiloid wondered what it would like to go through growth the same way a human child did, maturing over the course of twenty years instead of a scant month… The wonder a human child must experience…

Doan wondered what it was like to live like that.

It was much later that day when Dr. Scott called back to Japan and told them that they would need an extra three days. The reply was gracious, and gave them four days. They would need it; not only did they need to find luggage (again), but they needed to find someplace that could ship all their belongings they wanted to take.

Will, deciding this time to go in search for luggage himself (he was worried Doan would still be a bit shaky), had left a few minutes before, along with Amy. This left Doan to watch the kids, making sure they packed everything.

Making sure they kids had packed everything, Doan had found, was not the issue; keeping them from packing too much into their carry-on packs was a problem, however. This was resolved without hazard, and soon, each had placed themselves in front of the TV in digital mortal-combat. Doan wondered what was so engrossing with those games, but shrugged, and went back to his combination workshop and room to get ready for the trip.

He hadn't had to do much packing. He had only three changes of clothes – his body suit, an outfit for warm weather, and an outfit for cold weather. These would be easy for him to manage; his armor, on the other hand, would be a problem.

Wearing it in public, during travel, especially, would draw crowds. Luckily, Doan had managed to find an old warp system a few weeks earlier in his usual junk-yard sweep. After hours upon hours of pouring over the two-foot high cylinder, he had managed to construct a warp system that would store his armor as data for up to twenty-four hours before it would be warped back onto his person, wherever he may be.

As much as Doan immersed himself in his work, installing warp conduits and welding internal structures together, he could still not shake the images from the day before. Twice he had to stop working because his hands were shaking too much to permit any safe use of materials. Each time, the whole scene of the maverick attack kept coming back…

Doan knew he wasn't built to fight. He knew that the only reason he had a buster system in the first place was to fend of thieves. He knew that he would never need Harrison's buster again.

But, then, why did he choose to keep it?

It was late afternoon when Amy and Will came back from wherever they had gone for travel supplies, and each child was still fully engrossed with their game.

Doan helped the two parents with the luggage, his robotic arms easily hefting the loads of boxes, luggage, and other items the two had deemed necessary. Doan didn't understand why they needed new clothes to travel in, but he decided not to ask. Must be a human thing, he decided.

After Amy and Will had packed their things, they wandered into the living room, where their kids were still playing video games. Why they would play anything with a super-sonic blue rodent was beyond them; neither of them had ever really been into playing games.

Doan was still in his room, Mr. Scott noticed. He knew that Doan was dealing with the stress of the fire fight well, but he was still concerned.

Doan, by the robotics expert's guess, was only about two months old. And two months old, he knew, was not a long time to be in the world.

William Scott wondered if Doan really was dealing with the stress… or if he was just trying to avoid it.

Amy seemed to notice her husband deep in thought, and nudged him with her elbow.

"Hey, you. What's wrong?" Will didn't reply immediately, his mind lost in thought. After a moment, he shook his head, smiling a little.

"Nothing… I was just thinking, that's all." Amy looked at his funny.

"About…?"

"Nothing." Amy wrinkled her nose.

"Don't say that; I can tell when you're lying. Your ears twitch." Will looked back at his wife with a mixed look of incredulity and humor.

"My _ears_ twitch?" Amy giggled a little.

"You can't be married for fourteen years and not notice _something_ about the man you love." Will's ears reddened.

"Well, you know…" Amy laughed again, and poked him in the ribs.

"So, what were you thinking about?"

"Doan."

"Doan?"

"Yes, Doan. You know, that silver stranger that Melissa and Jeremy have become so attached to?" Amy poked him again.

"Yes, I _know_ who he is, you screwball. What were you thinking about?" Will shrugged a little.

"Well… You remember that un-identified repiloid that the news was talking about today?" Amy nodded, and froze, her expression shocked.

"You don't… no… Will…" William calmed his wife, not wanting to upset their children.

"Doan was at the store when it happened, I think. He doesn't want to talk about it."

"I wouldn't blame him…" The two sat, contemplating what to do next. Their children continued to play their game, unaware of the conversation their parents were having on the couch behind them.

"You should go talk to him Will." William Scott was a little surprised at his wife's suggestion.

"I don't think he wants to talk, Amy…" His wife gave him a hard look – but not just any look It was the look that men all over the world feared, a woman's trump card in her hand – the infamous "DO IT _NOW_" look.

And, of course, William Scott was not an exception to the rule.

"Okay, I'll… I'll go try and talk to him." Amy smiled gently at her husband.

"Thank you, honey." Will smiled as best he could – he knew that he'd been played, that she'd used the trump – but there was, of course, nothing he could do about it.

He rose silently as Jeremy pumped his fist in the air in victory, as Melissa extracted her revenge with a pillow to her brother's face. Their father sighed. Ah, to be young…

Doan examined the intricate circuitry through the intense magnification of his active-scope, the infentecimal patterns moving slowly on the monitor he kept in his shop. It was amazing, he thought, that something so small could hold such power… could control a force that had the potential to decimate a city block.

He found it ironic that once a repiloid – or any other matter – was in warp, they were at the mercy of whatever computer and power core was at the other end of the destination. He'd heard stories of things being lost in warp before; they were rare, but he was glad that only his armor would do any warping, and not himself.

"Doan." 

The silver repiloid did not look up from the monitor. He made no movement to acknowlage that Will was even there.

"Doan, you can't hide in the shop forever."

"Actually, I can. My internal Micro-fusion Tank Reactor, at it's present state, can sustain me for about another two-hundred and seventy four years, barring injury and major overhauls." Will gave the unmoving mechanic a dour look, but said nothing, sitting himself on Doan's cot.

"You know, you'll be able to have a bed once we get to Tokyo." Doan shrugged, a motion barely perceptable with his armored form.

"A stasis chaimber would be more efficent."

"Maybie so, but I bet it's not more comfortable."

"You wouldn't know." William looked at the floor.

"No, I suppose not."

Silence.

"You really can't stay in here forever." Doan's jaw set itself a bit more rigid than usual.

"I can't really go back out there. Not after what I've done." Will got up from the cot, rubbing his temples in a sign of stress.

"I thought we went over this…"

"Yes, we did. And, the more I think about it…" Doan's voice trailed off, as visions of the dead officer Harrison drifted through his mind; wraiths in a dark forest.

"Doan they were just mavericks-" Doan brought his fist down onto the workbench and turned to William Scott, bringing his synthetic skin close to the human's.

Scott was suddenly very aware of the fact that repiloids were not bound by the First Law of Robotics.

"They were REPILOIDS," he hissed, each word emerging with a cold, calculated precision.

"They were _just like me_." Scott took half a step back.

"They were _nothing_ like you," Doan's eyes didn't so much as flinch from Will's. "they killed with no mercy and with no reason and had every right to be slagged." Doan's optics narrowed.

"If they had every right to die, then so does every human on the planet who tried to fight back form some form of oppression."

"Not if they kill the innocent."

"Who's innocent? Who decides that?"

"We do, Doan. Every thinking being on this planet decides that."

Doan took half a step back.

"I'm still the same," he uttered coldly.

"I don't think Melissa would say that."

Doan froze, his mind struck with a blow that stopped him where he stood. Scott gazed at Doan, his eyes set on the image of the repiloid who had stopped with a single name.

"Melissa, I've found, has a very good judge of character." Doan struggled to regain his position, his mind reeling from the hammer blow that William had delt to him. Will continued on, oblivious to Doan' sudden loss of balance.

"Melissa will never be harmed, will she, Doan?" Doan brought his helm off his head as Will spoke.

"You fought to protect those you cared about. You fought to protect the ones you didn't want harmed." The young repiloid sat back onto his cot, holding his helmet in his hands.

"That is why you are different from the mavericks, Doan. They care only about lashing out at everything. They have no sense. They have no purpose. They live and die by the sword, just as every other criminal does." Doan was turning the helmet over in his hands, looking at his distorted reflection in the polished metal surface.

"You have a real reason to exist. You have a family."

William Scott walked back to his wife, leaving the repiloid behind in his room to be alone.

Will made sure to close the door behind him.


End file.
